Tonight, Tonight
by hansprinsessa
Summary: Pam took Eric at his word that night outside the Moon Goddess Emporium and fled from his sight, and although he finally got what he thought he wanted, his longing for his departed progeny is becoming more than he can bear. Set after Season 4, AU, Paric.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi, babies. Don't know how long this one is going to be, but it was sort of begging to be written, and I'm a slave to my muses. This story is inspired by my dear Lady Dudley's "Two Out of Three," a short one-shot. If you haven't read her fanfics, you are really missing out, she's my Paric fanfic hero. Anyway, I've written in a Sookie (only in the first chapter, don't fret my pets) who I would consider OOC, because she's pretty levelheaded and selfless, but from here on out, it'll be Paric all the way. I hope you enjoy, where I'm heading with it anyway. Ta for now.**

_And our lives are forever changed  
We will never be the same  
The more you change the less you feel  
Believe, believe in me, believe  
That life can change, that you're not stuck in vain  
We're not the same, we're different tonight  
Tonight, so bright  
Tonight  
- "Tonight, Tonight" by the flawless Smashing Pumpkins_

It had a year since he had last laid eyes on her face.

Scratch that. One year, two months, and sixteen days. Not that he was counting or anything. But every night that passed with them separated, with such a long distance between them, ate away at Eric more than he would ever show, ever care to even admit out loud. They had been inseparable since the moment he turned her over a century before; traveling the world together, leaving a trail of devastation in their wake. Partners in crime, partners in _everything. _No one ever saw one without the other, they were attached at the hip, and gladly so.

Until one year, two months, and sixteen days ago, when she vanished without a trace, leaving him behind with nothing but the vision of her anguished face, her eyes filled with tears of blood, and a hollow, empty void inside of him that ached so badly it would sometimes stop him in his tracks, leaving him gasping for breath that he didn't need.

And he knew he had no one to blame but himself.

"You're thinking about her again."

Sookie's soft voice breaks into his thoughts, and he blinks down at the scratched, worn surface of her kitchen table where his elbows rest, cradling his blonde head in his hands. He looks up at her, watching her silently for a moment while she eats her dinner, cutting the meat of some sort of animal into small pieces before spearing them with her fork and popping them in her mouth; an act, after a thousand years of being a vampire, he found mildly repellant.

She sits her utensils down, folding her hands in her lap as she returns his blank stare, silence passing between them as she finishes chewing her last bite.

"Eric?"

"Yes?" he replies reluctantly.

"I asked you a question."

"No," he says, sitting back in the chair, running his fingers through his hair, "You made a statement."

"Fine," she huffs, before rephrasing her declaration into an inquiry, "Were you thinking about her again?"

He still doesn't answer, his jaw setting stubbornly. He may have no one to blame but himself and his actions for driving Pam away from his side, where she belongs, but the spark that ignited the firestorm sits before him in a little flowery sundress. Just as she was wearing the very night he met her, inadvertently setting off the chain of events that had destroyed his life as he had known it, happily, for a hundred years.

There were many things he couldn't and wouldn't talk about with the part-fairy, part-human girl sitting in front of him, eying him warily, but the rift between he and his only progeny was at the very top of that list. For her name to be on his lips in this house, in a conversation with Sookie, seemed like a further betrayal, salt in a wound.

Not to mention, he hadn't spoken her name to anyone in one year, two months, and sixteen days. Not that he was counting every second that ticked by.

"Whatever, don't answer me then," Sookie sulks, glaring at him, "She's all you ever think about."

"And?" he asks, his irritation growing, this conversation that they have almost every time he sees her as of late wearing on his last nerve.

"You miss her, Eric," she says softly. "Why can't you admit it?"

He all but snorts. "To you?"

Sookie looks taken aback, her face falling. "Why not to me?"

"You…" he trails off, stopping himself for the thousandth time from accusing her of being the cause of all this. _It's your fault_, he tells himself again, _not hers. _"I do not wish to discuss it."

Sookie suddenly pushes her chair back from the table, its legs scraping across the new tile floor he had installed after her friend Tara and Alcide Herveaux's werebitch's scattered brains and blood ruined the linoleum the year before when they both met their respective, unfortunate demises. She carries her plate to the sink, dropping it in the basin before she turns, leaning against the countertop with her arms crossed over her chest, watching him closely.

A few moments pass with them locked in a staring contest, one that she knows from experience she will lose. Finally, she whispers, "Why are you even here, Eric?"

He runs one large hand down his face in frustration at her question. A question that he asked himself too many times to count, especially lately, when the absence of his child was becoming too much for him to bear.

Sookie was something that he had wanted, _desired_, like nothing else he had ever experienced before. Being near her, at least in the beginning, before he _had_ her, was something akin to a compulsion to him. _Vampire crack_ she had so aptly called herself, and he wondered if she knew just how accurate that statement was.

It wasn't just her blood. It was just…her. The fairy in her. It drew him, _and_ the illustrious King of Louisana for that matter, to her like a moth to a flame. And a moth, when drawn to a flame, is bound to get burned, and he had. Had he ever. He had lost the only thing that had ever truly mattered to him besides his maker, who was gone forever.

There was nothing outwardly special about her. She was plain, especially in comparison to the caliber of women he had bedded over the years. Supermodels. Actresses. Princesses. _Pamela._

And her personality was sub-par at best. She didn't get his somewhat strange sense of humor. They didn't have much to talk about when they were alone together, once things had died down after the skirmish with the witches. The long periods of silence that tended to stretch between them were not comfortable ones as he had known with his child.

They just had nothing in common. He was a thousand years old, she not even thirty. Not that her age mattered so much, Pamela hadn't been _that _much older than Sookie herself when he had become enchanted by her. But Pam had been wise far beyond her years, molded by a tough upbringing and adult life where she had no choice but to grow up fast and live hard.

Even after a century together, they still had so much in common; no shortage of things to mindlessly chat about. She made him laugh like no one else ever could, or ever would. And even more than that, they didn't _need_ chatter between them. They could spend all night together with only a few words passing between them, just enjoying each other's company. Nobody, _especially_ not Sookie Stackhouse, could ever compare.

In fact, Sookie's company, or lack thereof, seemed to only intensify his longing for what he had and lost. For Pam.

"_That_ wasn't a statement, Eric," Sookie suddenly grumbles, "Are you incapable of answering questions tonight, or what?"'

His eyes fall back on her as he states simply, "I don't know."

"You don't know if you're incapable of answering questions?"

"I don't know why I'm here," he says.

"I thought you came because you _liked _to spend time with your girlfriend," she answers.

He suppresses an eyeroll at the oh-so-human term he had told her a thousand times that he didn't like. He looks down at his boots for a moment, rolling her question over in his ancient mind. _Why._ He doesn't enjoy coming here. He doesn't enjoy her company, since he could never be his true self around her anyway. He honestly doesn't even enjoy fucking her anymore, the novelty of _that_ had worn off rather quickly as inexperienced and, well, _vanilla_ as she is and would always be. He had even given into her senseless demand that he not drink her blood, a demand she had made when she chose him over Bill Compton, something that was somewhat of a stipulation of her allowing him into her life. To prove that it wasn't just about the blood, although he was finding out the hard way that it had a lot to do with the blood, on both of their parts. So, he certainly didn't get to enjoy feeding from her. In fact, when he left her every night that he visited, more often than not, he had fucked and fed on a fangbanger at his club before going to ground. She just wasn't enough for him, in any aspect.

_Only one woman had ever been enough, _he thinks to himself sadly, _and you pushed her away._

"Maybe you should just go," Sookie sighs, tiring of the silent treatment.

"Perhaps I should," he replies cooly with a nod. He stands, pushing the chair he had been seated in back neatly under the table where he had found it, pulling the black leather jacket he left draped over the back off of the chair, sliding his bare, muscular arms through the sleeves.

Crossing over to where Sookie still stands, he bends down to drop a kiss in her blond hair, pulling away to look down at her as he speaks. "Goodnight, Sookie."

"Goodnight, Eric. I love you."

He looks away at this, discomforted by her words, by his complete and total inability to return the sentiment. This was their normal song and dance every time they parted ways for the evening. But this time is different, it seems, as he looks back up to see tears welling in her brown eyes.

"Goodnight, Sookie," he repeats slowly before turning, his long legs carrying him quickly to the front door of the ancient farmhouse, ready to get out of there, ready to get back to his bar to take out his frustrations on some willing bloodbag. In his office. Where he can still smell _her_, even after all this time.

Her small voice stills his hand, though, as it touches the doorknob. "Do you love me, Eric?"

Her question is only met with his continued silence, and he can smell her tears as they begin to fall even at the distance he's put between them. After a moment, she continues, "You told me you did. Just once. The night you got your memories back."

"I did," he agrees, still not turning around, frozen in place. He said a lot of things that night, and the nights following that one that he didn't mean. That he regrets. But the things he said that he regrets the most weren't the words spoken to Sookie Stackhouse. Not by a long shot. His own voice echos inside his head for the millionth time, the last words he had spoken to his beloved progeny one year, two months, and sixteen days ago: _Get out of my sight before I kill you._

"But you don't, do you," she whispers, a statement this time, not a question. "You don't love me."

For a long moment, he doesn't say a word, before he finally turns, leaning his back against the door, attempting to choose his words carefully. "Sookie, I care about—"

"Please don't," she says, shaking her head as more tears fall. Tears that used to threaten to break him, that now only make him want to run like some sort of coward. "Please don't tell me you 'care about me very much' again. I don't want to hear it. _Do you love me?_"

More silence falls between them before he slowly shakes his head to the negative. He can't lie to her, he won't. Not about this. He's lied to her quite a bit in their time together, but on this, she deserves nothing less than the truth. "I can't, Sookie. I can't love you."

"You _can _love, Eric. Don't hide behind your vampirism. You _can _love me."

"I _can't _love you, Sookie," he stresses. "I care about you. I want the best for you. But I do not love you."

"You _can_ love," she repeats stubbornly.

"Yes, I _can_ love," he affirms, trapping her with his icy blue gaze until he sees the realization begin to cross her features.

"Pam," she breathes, "You're in love with Pam."

He can't help but stiffen slightly at the mere mention of her name, opening the floodgate of the desperation and longing he feels for her that he works so hard to keep pent up. Suddenly unable to find his voice, he nods, averting his eyes from her face.

"For how long?" she asks softly.

"Sookie—"

"The whole time we've been together?" she interrupts, her fists clenching at her sides.

"Sookie," he begins again, "Are you serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious!" she shouts, her sadness erupting into anger, "How long have you been in love with her?"

He can't help but smirk as he answers her honestly, "Well over a hundred years."

"A hundred…Eric!" she screeches, "Pam is gay!"

"Who told you that?" he asks seriously.

"She…she flirted with me!"

"She flirts with everyone," he says, his smile growing despite himself; he's always been amused by her antics. But his smile quickly fades. He misses her _so much._

Sookie can only stare, shocked by his revelation. She knew he loved her, knew he missed her, could tell he _longed_ for her, but _in_ love with her? How could she not have known? If she had, she knows she would have never even bothered. How could she begin to compete with…that?

After a moment, Eric speaks, his voice soft. "I'm so sorry, Sookie."

"Don't apologize," she answers even softer, looking up at the man she had spent a year of her finite life with, struggling the entire time with what he was, who he was, and who he _wasn't_. Never again was he going to be the man she had fallen in love with, the sweet, simple man who didn't know anything about himself. And, still struggling with the fact that she was still just as in love with the dark-haired vampire next door as she had been the night she chose Eric over him. Taking a deep breath, she continues, "I love you, Eric, but this," she gestures between them, "was never going to work out. We both knew that from the beginning, didn't we?"

"Yes," he replies with a nod, "I think we did..." He stops abruptly, not knowing how to finish his thought. He wanted her to be his, but once she _was_ his, she hadn't turned out to be at all what he thought she'd be. And guiltily, he realizes that he stayed because, in the end, she was all he had left. He had made his bed, and he was lying in it.

But it was time to change that.

"I wanted you to be mine, Sookie…" he starts, but she finishes the thought for him.

"But you were never mine to have, were you?" she asks quietly, watching as he slowly shakes his head, lowering his eyes to the floor.

"Go find her, Eric," she implores him, closing the distance between them. It hurts, but somewhere deep down, she realizes she's always known she's only ever had a piece of his heart, and knows he's only been a fraction of the man he once was before he lost her. "Go find Pam. Rather she wants to be found or not."

He stares down at her for a long moment, before silently nodding his head, turning to the door.

"Goodbye, Sookie Stackhouse," he says softly over his shoulder.

"Goodbye, Eric," she whispers, but before the words can leave her lips, he's already gone.

**A/N: If you enjoyed, please review. I need reviews to function. Until next time, lovers. **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you for the kind reviews, my lovelies!**

* * *

"Get out," Eric growls lowly at the dancer he's just shoved roughly from his lap, turning his attention to re-fastening his jeans, oblivious to the girl as she pulls her sparkly, ridiculously tight minidress back down over her thighs.

She raises her hand to her neck, pressing on the unhealed twin puncture wounds there that still well and drip with blood, confusion painting her features. "But, Master—"

"_Out," _he snarls, his voice rising to a deafening decibel, as he watches with some satisfaction as she scurries from the room in a hurry, leaving a trail of bad perfume in her wake.

It had been the perfume that did it. He had come back from Sookie's almost in a rage, at himself and his stupidity. He had stormed into the club, plucking the new dancer practically off the pole as he sped by, purposefully choosing this human over all the others in his employment.

She was a brunette.

And although she was pretty enough, with blood that tasted fair in comparison to some of the human filth that passed as donors these days, she had done nothing to distract him, to quell the storm that had been brewing inside him for one year, two months, and sixteen days.

But her perfume had done him in. He had come back to his office, to the one place where he could still smell _her, _and the girl had done nothing but fill his senses with the foul smell of cheap perfume, drowning out the only scent he so longed to surround himself with, immerse himself in. There would be no pretending the woman moving over him was his progeny tonight, no matter how tightly he shut his eyes and wished it to be so.

Leaning with his elbows on his knees, he rubs his eyes, silently judging how long he has until sunrise. Not long now. The club was quiet, Ginger obviously having taken the initiative to close the club on her own without him having to instruct her to for once. He waits until he hears the back door shut once again as the girl lets herself out before he stands, walking out into the hallway to deadbolt the door behind her. Spinning on his heel, he walks to the door of the basement, pushing it open before letting himself in, locking it behind him as well. His body can sense the sun beginning to rise, causing his movements to become more sluggish as he descends the steps into the darkness.

Just as he does every night, he drags his fingers across Pamela's ridiculous pink coffin as he walks by, his eyes following his fingers as they trace the pattern on the lid until they reach the end. He continues on his way until he reaches his much more logical, black, streamlined coffin, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it carelessly to the floor before he climbs inside.

He sighs as he closes his blue eyes, missing the comfort of his bed. His bed, that sits just down the road in a house he hasn't set foot in in one year, two months, and sixteen days.

He hadn't been able to force himself to go home, _their _home, once he banished her from his sight. Coming back to Fangtasia the following night had been bad enough, seeing the chaos that she left his office in, knowing that it only reflected the chaos inside her heart and mind; the drops of blood by the door from her tears nearly crippling him. He had never let Ginger clean them up, leaving them there as a reminder to himself of what he had done. A few tiny bloodstains that were torture devices; seeing them, smelling them, knowing he had caused them. Eric knew with just one look at Ginger that she had witnessed the entire scene, and knowing that the human judged him for it somehow made it all the worse.

But he knew he couldn't go home. He couldn't see what she had taken, and what she hadn't. Couldn't stand to smell any more of her tears, couldn't bear to be surrounded by any more of her scent than he was here at their club, knowing he'd suffocate under the weight of what he lost.

At first, he thought this storm would blow over in a few days. He felt her squeeze shut their bond, something he wouldn't have thought she was strong enough to do. But she had, and he had let her, allowing her first a few days, and then a few weeks of space before he attempted to call her home. He would wait, he decided, to go home until she could go home with him, where they could be alone, and have a chance to talk.

But when he had finally had enough of her absence and commanded her through their blood to come back, he had felt her anger and her pain seconds before he felt nothingness. She had effectively cut off their blood tie, something she had _never _done before. He had never felt such emptiness until that moment, losing the connection he had with her left him feeling like he had lost his heartbeat, so used was he to feeling her every second she was alive after dark.

Being connected to Pamela was like a rollercoaster ride he never wanted to get off of. Feeling her every whim, her every want and need, her emotions changing like the tide, and her infallible love for him throughout their nights together had been something he never realized he adored so much, _craved _so much, until it was gone.

But it wasn't gone for good. No, this morning, like every other before it for the last year, two months, and sixteen days, he would lie awake for hours with the bleeds, waiting.

Waiting for the sun to rise in California.

Waiting for those few minutes when she would let go just before she would fall into her own rest, thinking for certain that he would be dead to the world, unable to feel her. Little did she know, even if he _were_ asleep, even if this wasn't something he _had_ to do to be able to go on existing the next night, the intensity of suddenly feeling her through their connection would have woken him from his death.

He knows from experience with his own insolence in his younger days how painful it is to ignore a maker's command. How impossible it seems to make your body obey your own mind instead of what your blood is willing every cell of your being to do against your wishes. Not to mention how exhausting it is, how much energy it takes, to close a bond as strong as theirs.

How is she even functioning? _Why won't she just come back to him?_

The first trickles of blood slowly begin to seep from his ears and nose as he waits, lying wide awake in the darkness. Waiting on her anguish to hit him, her sorrow, the same longing he feels right down to his bones to wash over him from her.

He'll take the pain, he'll relish in it. _Anything _just to feel her.

And if she won't come to him, he will just go to her. It's not a matter of _finding _her. He had known where she was going, and where she had been, since the moment she left Shreveport. She had gone back to the one place he had refused to let her go, not since the last time they had been there well over a century ago now.

She was in San Fransisco, the place she called home before _he _became her home.

Suddenly, he feels it, feels _her, _making him realize just how long he'd been lying there, thinking about her. Hours had passed. Her agony washes over him like a tidal wave, causing an unneeded breath to catch in his throat. Physical pain, yes, but it's her heart that hurts the most, heartbreak that matches only his own. And a longing for him so strong it almost, as always, pushes him to sit upright in his coffin, his every instinct calling on him to rush to her side, to comfort her, despite the sun shining brightly outside.

He's saturated in her. Drowning in her pain and her sorrow. But instead of wishing it away, he clings to it like a life raft as he struggles to not let her know he can feel her, for fear that she'll take this, too, away from him.

Alone, in the darkness of their club, he swears he can smell her tears, mixed with his own.

But this morning is different from the four hundred and fourty-two that had passed him by. This morning, he's had enough.

"_Go find Pam," _Sookie had said earlier that night as she stepped aside, knowing a force of nature when she saw one.

Tomorrow night, when he rises, he'll be doing just that.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry this took so long, guys. Split this and the next chapter in two because it was **_**way**_** long.**

* * *

He had been in San Francisco two nights.

The flight from New Orleans to California had been the longest of his life. Taking a page from his progeny's book of tricks, he had blocked his side of their bond once the jet had taken off, not wanting to chance her feeling him coming closer, lest she decide to move on before he could speak with her.

He knew she would run, run from him. A hundred years of her running _to_ him, and now he knows she'll run away, given the chance. Something that he can only blame himself for; himself and his words and his actions that drove her to the farthest side of the country from their home in the first place.

So, he blocked himself from her, and in the process had to wonder yet again how Pamela could even be managing to function. Even at ten times her age, he could barely stand the stress that blocking something that comes as natural as breathing to humans caused his body and his mind. His blood, constantly calling for her, fought constantly against him as he struggled to keep a firm hold on their bond, squeezing it shut tightly.

He didn't want her to know he was coming for her, but more than that, he didn't want her to feel his apprehension. His, if he was honest with himself, fear. Fear that she might reject him, not give him the forgiveness he's come searching for. Leaving this state without her would be bad enough, but to not get to pull her into his arms, to tell her he's sorry, would surely break him.

He wipes away the bead of blood he can feel trailing from his nose to his lip as the cab he had hailed pulls up to the curb and comes to a stop; the bleeds, a byproduct of his struggle to hide his whereabouts from her, proof of the strain his ancient body is under. And the blood slowly leaking from his nose and ears is just a side effect. The bleeds remind him of what he remembers of a bad headache as a human, but much, much worse, much more painful, much more debilitating, with no tiny white pill to swallow to make it go away.

He quickly pays the driver and steps from the car, squinting under the harsh glow of the streetlights above him in the well-lit neighborhood he had been searching for.

As was customary and expected, he had checked in with the Sheriff of the area upon his arrival. Normally when travelling, he doesn't bother; being one of the oldest vampires in America affords him the right to be a little ornery when it comes to following some of the newer rules set forth by the vampire hierarchy.

But this time was different. Without being able to feel her, the Sheriff of the area in which San Francisco lies was his best chance of locating her, and quickly.

However, the Sheriff hadn't been exactly forthcoming with the information. He had been less than pleased upon seeing the well-known Viking vampire striding into his office like he owned the place, demanding to know the whereabouts of a vampire that, according to the Sheriff, had been given asylum in his area from an unknown threat. That she truly felt threatened by him, that she truly _believed_ his mindless threat in the first place, all but sent Eric into a rage.

There had been an…altercation, to put it mildly. Eric had almost removed the much younger vampire's head for refusing him. But, as the vampire's feet dangled helplessly nearly a foot off the ground, Eric's large hand wrapped securely around his neck as he reminded the underling he had no right to interfere in the affairs between a maker and his progeny, he had relented, spilling the last address he knew of for his Pamela.

With no time to go to her that night before sunrise, he had returned to the opulent hotel his dayman had reserved for him, almost unable to stand the thought of waiting another night to lay eyes on her. _Touch _her.

It had been one year, two months, and seventeen days.

In the same timezone, he didn't have to wait long to feel her. Her pain, when she let go of the vice grip she held on their bond, hit him like a freight train despite his own tenuous hold, barreling through him from her. Perhaps it was the much closer distance that made her physical pain so much worse, but either way, he was sure it was slowly tearing him apart.

He had attributed her agony all this time to her heartbreak, and to the pain she _must_ be suffering simply from trying to hide from him, and refuse to obey the command he still held over her; his command for her to return.

But lying alone in the dark, in a hotel so close yet so far away from where she must lie in her own bed, realization suddenly hits.

_Her curse. _Was she better?

How could he have been such a fool? When she had barged into Bill Compton's mansion hours after his own curse had been lifted by Sookie, so mindfucked was he by the events that had transpired, he hadn't even bothered to ask her about how she was. He had seen her there in Bill's dungeon when he they under arrest, that particular memory apparently overshadowed by all the others that he retained once a thousand years of memories had so suddenly come back.

But then, well over a year later, that memory charged to the forefront of his mind. The smell of her, no longer the sweet scent that had become home for him, instead the smell of decay, rotting flesh as the curse ate her from the inside out. The flawless milky-whiteness of her skin, her full, pouty lips he had so desired, those dancing blue eyes he had wanted trained only on him for a hundred years, all destroyed by the same witch that had destroyed his mind.

He knew her heartbreak had begun the moment he looked at her as if she was a stranger. But there, in that basement cell, it had deepened to the point, he feared, of no return. He had told her he didn't want to be the vampire she knew. That he'd rather trade his past, _their_ shared past, for this new life he thought he had. He had told her what he had only gone on to prove with his words and his actions, that Sookie was the only thing that mattered to him.

And when he saw her again, seemingly healed, he had felt her physical pain then. He _knew_ she still wasn't well, yet did he bother to ask her? Check on her? No, his focus was on the other witch in question, Sookie Stackhouse, who had cast an even more detrimental spell on him than the witch Marnie herself.

He had spent the following day beside her, chained under silver during the daylight hours, and never once during the torturous eight hours spent listening to Nan Flannigan and Queen Bill bicker back and forth had he inquired about her curse.

He hadn't summoned her when he was well again. He hadn't asked about her once she dutifully, immediately, returned to his side, concerned only for his well-being, not her own. He hadn't asked her while they were chained together, even as she took up for him against Nan's threats. Even when she tentatively laid her head on his shoulder, no doubt exhausted from the strain her petite body was under, no doubt craving his touch, his comfort, the closeness they used to know, he said nothing.

He hadn't stopped to think about what she had been through. Cursed, _dying_ from the inside. Spending her days under silver, alone, without him there to comfort her.

And the next night, still without checking on her well-being, he threatened to kill her himself, as if the curse wasn't doing that _anyway_, and banished her from his side. And although he longed to have her back, although he missed her so badly it had slowly worn him down to nothing, a shell of the man he used to be, over the past year her curse had yet to enter his mind. Once again, he was only concerned for himself, for how her absence had affected him.

What kind of maker _was _he? What would Godric say?

_Father, brother, son,_ Godric has told him before he turned him, and then proceeded to prove those words to him, over and over, throughout the thousand years Eric had walked this earth, until Godric had asked him to let him go, to let him be at peace. Eric knew he could only strive to be half the vampire Godric was. Half the _maker_ Godric was. But even in this goal, Eric had fallen far short.

He had allowed a human—a _human_—to come between them. It had been him that instilled in Pamela from her first night, from the very night he turned her, that their bond was stronger than anything she as a human at the time could comprehend. And from the night she rose, he had taught her that humans were nothing but cattle. Lesser beings. Nothing to them but food, nourishment.

He had spent a century showing her he held her in the highest regard, that she belonged on the pedestal he put her on. A hundred years to show her she was the most important person in the world to him, and two years of chasing a human who didn't truly care for him to take that all away.

He shakes himself as someone brushes by him on the crowded street, jolting him from his thoughts. His eyes rise to the upscale apartment building before him, focusing on the third row of windows midway up. Swallowing thickly, he forces himself to move from the spot he's been rooted to since he stepped from the hired car.

He waits patiently until he sees another resident entering the building before stepping from the shadows, giving the elderly woman a charming smile.

"Hello, sweetheart," he purrs, stepping in unnecessarily close as she lowers her hand from the door.

"H…hello," she whispers, looking up at him cautiously as she clutches her handbag to her chest, "Is there something I can help you with, young man?"

He chuckles as he inclines his head, catching her eye, effortlessly ensnaring her in his glamour. His eyes stay locked on her pale blue ones as he speaks, his voice turning to velvet. "There's a neighbor of yours I would like to visit. You're going to let me in this building, aren't you?"

The wiry old woman actually looks defiant for a moment as she whispers, "Have them buzz you in."

He steps impossibly closer, his voice dropping to a low growl. "That is not an option. Let me in. Do not make me ask you again, young lady," he adds mockingly. He's easily ten times her age. Young man, indeed.

"O…okay," she stutters as she turns towards the door, her gnarled fingers deftly punching in the code. When she begins to struggle to open the heavy door to the apartment building, he helps her, opening it wide enough for her to cross the threshold, him hot on her heels. She turns to him as they step into the lobby, in her glamoured state already seeking further instruction from the one who has control over her mind.

He smiles down at her as he speaks. "Thank you. You never saw me here, did you?"

"Saw who?" she breathes, her face blank, her voice devoid of any emotion.

"Good girl," he says with a grin, before spinning on his heel, leaving the old woman to her state of confusion.

He quickly finds the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time on his way up to the third level, the floor on which he's told his progeny resides.

As he steps from the landing into the hallway, he takes a deep breath. Even if he didn't know which apartment number was hers, even with their bond still blocked from both of their sides, his eyes immediately fall on the door about halfway down the hall. He can smell her blood so strongly his fangs snap down, the click of their descent echoing in the silent corridor.

In a flash, he's standing in front of the door, his eyes staring at it as if he could see through it. As if he can derive some sort of clue as to what he might find on the other side. He raises his fist, trying to ignore that, for the first time he can ever recall, his hands are shaking.

_This is it._

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**A/N: Next chapter will be up momentarily, lovelies.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This chapter brings this one to a close. Hope you guys enjoy :3**

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He knocks, softly at first, and then louder, before stepping to the side, out of the view of the peephole. After what seems like an eternity without hearing a sound, his impatience gets the better of him and he knocks again, the sound of his knuckles against the wood echoing down the hallway.

After his fourth round of knocking on the door turns into more of a pounding, he finally hears slow, soft footsteps, followed by the voice he's been longing to hear for over a year as the deadbolts begin to turn.

"If you have a fucking death wish, I'd be happy to oblige…"

Her words die on her lips as she throws the door open angrily, both of them freezing at the sight of each other, the only sound in the hallway being the sharp breath he sucks in.

She's _stunning_. Whole, in one piece, no longer suffering from the curse, outwardly at least; wrapped in a fluffy pink robe with, of course, matching slippers; he'd expect nothing less. His eyes land on her face, the blood stains underneath her eyes and nose not distracting from her striking beauty, before registering the pure, unadulterated fear in her eyes. Fear of _him_; the realization, the proof of what he's done laid out so plainly before him, makes his heart clench.

"Eric," she breathes, clutching onto the doorframe.

"Pamela," he answers softly, suddenly at a loss for words, the practiced speeches and declarations that had been running through his head for a year suddenly leaving his mind blank.

He straightens his back, blinking as she flinches away from him, the shock beginning to fade from her face as she struggles to wipe her expression clean. Only those big, deep blue eyes show any sign of what she's feeling, still so full of fear.

Finally, she breaks the silence between them in a shaky voice. "Finally come to finish the job?"

"Pam…" he begins.

"It's about time," she murmurs, peering behind him into the hallway. "Did you bring your _pet_ along for the trip?"

"No," he answers shortly, "I did not."

"That's a shame," she hisses sarcastically, crossing her arms protectively across her chest. "I'm sure she'd relish in watching you kill me. For _her. _How fucking _romantic._"

He opens his mouth before snapping it shut, biting back an angry retort. After a few deep breaths, he manages to ask calmly, "Can I come in?"

"I don't fucking think so," she answers immediately, moving to shut the door in his face before he blocks its path with his boot.

"Pamela," he says as sternly as he can manage, "I need…" He trails off, looking away as his voice falters before he slowly raises his eyes back to hers. "Let me in, Pam. I need to talk to you."

For a moment, she stares at him; her chin raised in defiance, her icy blue eyes narrowed. The thought crosses his mind to command her to let him in, but he dismisses the idea quickly. That would help nothing, and she's already defying one of his commands as long as her feet stayed planted in California.

As he watches, the mask slowly begins to crumble before his eyes; her fear of him, her pain, shining through as she whispers, sounding almost childlike, "Are you going to hurt me?"

"No," he answers just as softly. "Never." He swallows as he pins her with his gaze, saying the one word she can probably count on one hand how many times she's heard him say. "Please, Pamela."

Her shoulders slump as she nods, moving out of his way, watching him with wary eyes as he steps into the apartment he has financed for the last year.

That was another thing he had never paused to worry about over the time they had been apart: her financial well-being. She had cleaned out his cash reserves when she was fleeing town. Not that he was angry, he would have given her all of that and more; and had, after all, told her many times that he kept it in Fangtasia's basement for that exact reason. For an emergency. In case they needed to flee. But, he always thought they'd be picking up and leaving together, not her alone, certainly not him being the one she was running from.

Brushing past her more closely than necessary as he walks by, he can feel them both stiffen at their close proximity. Walking into the small living area, more sparsely decorated than he would have thought she would be able to suffer through, he turns to watch her close the door, her hand lingering on the doorknob. She doesn't turn around as she finally speaks.

"It's been over a year. Why come here now?"

"It's been over a year since I commanded you to return to me," he answers coldly, "I shouldn't have _had_ to come for you."

She sniffs, her back still to him as she whispers, "You shouldn't have sent me away."

"You defied me," he grits out; angry, not at her, but at the way their conversation has begun.

"Why did you come here, Eric?" she asks softly, slowly turning to face him, leaning her back against the door, her arms wrapping around her torso. "You say you didn't come here to follow through on your threat. Did you really travel across the country to tell me, again, that I could have killed her?"

"No—" he begins, before she interrupts.

"I'd do it again," she whispers, her eyes pinned on his. "A thousand times, I'd do it again. I was _not_ trying to kill her, but I'd kill her with my bare hands if I had to, to save you. I thought your curse had been broken," she says softly before adding, "It had only just begun."

He sighs, taking a small step in her direction, his blue eyes searching her face. "And your curse?"

"Broken," she whispers. "Not long after you…"

He nods. "The witch's death."

"I suppose," she answers, her eyes dropping to the floor in front of her.

"Come home, Pamela," he breathes, taking a step closer to her.

"No," she answers as her voice cracks, "I can't."

"You can," he says firmly, "and you will."

"Where have _you_ been for the last year, Eric?" she asks, raising her eyes to his. "Finally get tired of Tinkerbell?"

"Yes," he hisses through clenched teeth.

"So what," she begins, "you're lonely? You had your fun with that snaggletoothed twat and now you need further entertainment?"

"No," he answers, but she cuts him off.

"A hundred years I was with you," she says quietly, tears welling in her eyes. "I've seen you seduce supermodels and princesses and spit out their bones when you were finished…"

"Pam," he whispers.

"…I never thought I'd be next. Never thought you'd be finished with _me_," she remarks softly, shaking her head as she lowers her eyes.

"I'm not, Pamela," he answers just as quietly, continuing to inch towards her, desperate to touch her. "You are _mine, _Pam. I will _never_ be finished with you."

"I'm not yours anymore, Eric," she whispers.

"Like fuck you're not," he growls angrily, before his voice drops to a more desperate tone. "I never released you, Pamela." He takes a step towards her as she repeats stubbornly, "You are _my_ progeny. _My_ child. _My _blood. You are—"

"_Not_ yours," she finishes for him, "no more than _you_ are mine."

"I _am_—" he counters, but she cuts him short yet again.

"You belong to _her_ now," she says simply. "I heard you that night at Bill's before I walked in. Talking to _her_." He freezes as she all but spits out the word as if it's a curse, his eyes going wide in near-horror. He had never thought she might have overheard that conversation, when he was still so confused. "You gave yourself to her, _completely._ There's no room in your heart for both of us."

After a moment, he nods his head in agreement. "There is not."

She nods her head slowly, expecting nothing else. "I think you should go," she whispers, a tear finally spilling over from her red-rimmed eyes. Before it has time to make its way down her cheek, he closes the short distance between them. She flinches as his hands rise to cup her face, before brushing away the tear with his thumb, his eyes dropping as she bites her lip, her nervousness at his close proximity rolling off her in waves.

He had watched Sookie cry just days before and felt nothing but discomfort, irritation. Only this woman's tears had _ever_ had the power to undo him; and when, over the years, he's been the cause of her tears, it's always nearly brought the thousand year old killer to his knees.

He nearly groans feeling her cool skin beneath his fingertips after so long, the contact between them always almost electric. The blood that animates her, the blood that gives her life, is _his_ blood; and will eternally call out for its source, for its match.

"There is _not_ room in my heart for both of you," he says softly, his hands still cradling her cheeks. "There never was." He waits until her eyes finally meet his before he whispers, "I made a mistake, Pamela."

She manages to arch an eyebrow, the impact of her attempt at a bitchy face lessened by her trembling chin. "_A_ mistake?"

One of his hands tentatively slides from her face into her hair, moving slowly, unsure if she's going to push him away. "_Many_ mistakes," he whispers, his fingers trailing through the soft locks draped over her shoulder, "Some greater than others."

She's quiet for a moment, her eyes falling to his fingers as they wind into the curls lying against the lapel of her pink robe, quiet for so long he almost begins to speak again, before she finally speaks, her voice small. "Everything I've ever done since the night I first rose has been because I loved you. Every decision I've made…"

"I know, Pamela," he answers just as softly. "I know."

"You were going to _kill _yourself," she suddenly growls, her body trembling underneath his hands, "No better than Bill fucking Compton."

"I—"

"Gone. Forever. Everything that you are, vanished off the face of this earth," she snarls, tears now coursing freely down her cheeks. "I did nothing that you wouldn't have done to save Godric. _Nothing. _You and Compton were going to leave me and Jessica and that sparkling fucking cunt of yours to fend for ourselves against that godforsaken witch. How long do you think we would have lasted? She would have killed us as soon as you were gone—"

"I know," he interrupts, repeating again, "I know, min söta—"

"—and I would have _welcomed _death," she breathes, her small hand rising to grip his wrist as he still holds her face in his hands, finally touching him, "I would have _wanted_ to die. There is no me without you. I can't _live_ without you, God knows I've been trying."

He watches, feeling helpless, as her eyes close, tears leaking out from underneath her long lashes faster than he can brush them away. After a moment, he steps fractionally closer; his voice, when he finally finds it, is choked with his guilt. "I am so, so sorry," he whispers, his thumbs caressing her cheeks. "I cannot take back what I've done, mitt barn, but…" He trails off, swallowing hard. "I have walked this earth a thousand years. A thousand years, Pamela, and this past year has been the worst…" Trailing off once again, his words catching in his throat as he looks down at her; her eyes closed, unwilling to look at him, her small frame shaking. "I can't live without you either, Pamela. I haven't even _tried_."

"Eric…" she begins, but he cuts her off, shaking her lightly until she opens her eyes to look at him.

"No," he gruffs, "I haven't lived since you left me."

"Since you _banished _me," she corrects quietly, "I never, I would have never, left you willingly."

"Yes," he agrees, "and if I live another thousand years, I'll never forgive myself for what I've done. And I don't expect you to forgive me," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper, "but I want it. I need it. Pamela," he murmurs, "I've made many mistakes in my life, but nothing compared to this. I am sorry I chose someone else over you. I am sorry I threatened you, I am sorry I sent you away, but most of all…" He trails off for a moment, and taking his chances, he leans down, pressing his lips softly against her forehead. Instead of pushing him away, she leans into his touch, a sob escaping her throat. Murmuring against her forehead, he finally manages to finish, "I am sorry I thought I loved another, when it's always been you."

"You didn't _think_," she sobs out, her hands suddenly clutching at his jacket, "I _felt_ you, Eric. You _did _love her, and I had to live with it. I had to feel every second of it."

"I did," he agrees sadly, feeling the crack in his heart deepening at her broken sob, gasping for breath she doesn't need as she cries. He finally drops his hands from her cheeks, pulling her tightly against him, burying his nose in her sweet-smelling hair. "I did love her, Pamela, or I thought I did, when I didn't know who you were. And for that, I am sorry. I'm sorry you felt it, I'm sorry _I _felt it. Those days I spent with her, and the days afterwards, were so fucked up, Pam."

"You got what you wanted," she whispers into the soft cotton of his shirt. "She was all you wanted. You stopped wanting me as soon as you met her."

"You know that's not true," he murmurs into her hair.

She's quiet for a long moment, before she asks, "What about her?"

"She is no longer my concern," he answers, pulling away from her enough to see her face. "She is _not_ my concern," he repeats more firmly as his fingers rise to trail along her jaw. "You are. _You_ are all that matters, Pamela. Please believe me. Please believe that."

He manages a small smile as she nods reluctantly, before he adds, "I was so confused. I was confused while I was cursed, and I was even more confused when the spell was broken. I would never have hurt you, Pamela. _Never._" His voice lowers as he wipes her tears with the backs of his fingers, speaking more honestly than he can ever recall; she deserves the truth, and nothing less. "I am nothing without you at my side. I came because I can't continue on this way, Pam. I love _you_. Not her. _You._ Come home with me, my love. Or we'll stay here. We can go _anywhere_, just let me be with you again."

When she turns her face up to his, it leaves their lips only inches apart, her eyes glittering with tears. She's so beautiful, so _his_, how could he have ever let her go? How could he ever have hurt her, rather intentionally or unintentionally?

"It's been a year and two months…"

"And seventeen days," she whispers softly, finishing for him. Proving she's been counting every moment that has gone by as well as he has.

"And seventeen days," he repeats quietly, his eyes dropping to her lips. "I lost who I was when I was cursed. But I lost my heart after the curse was broken." Taking a risk, his fingers sink into her hair, pulling her even closer, his eyes locked on hers as he murmurs, "I'm not asking you to forgive me. Just make me whole again, Pamela. Please, min älskling, make me whole."

It's her that closes the distance between them, crashing her lips into his as she pulls him closer by the front of his leather jacket. Caught off guard by her sudden move, it takes him a moment to return her kiss, twisting his fingers in her hair to hold her mouth to his, afraid that she'll pull away, that this is just a kiss goodbye.

But she doesn't. He shudders as he feels her tongue brush against his lips, immediately granting her the entrance she's begging for, opening his mouth as he kisses her deeply, his fangs snapping down as his own tongue tastes the blood from her tears on her full lips.

Her fingers on his cheeks, pulling his face down to hers as she returns his kiss greedily is all the green light he needs. In a flash of movement, he has her small frame pressed between his body and the door at her back, his hands sliding down to grasp the back of her thighs, lifting her up as she all but climbs his body, her fingers tangling in his short hair as her legs wrap around his waist.

"Pamela," he groans as his lips break away from hers, making their way down her neck, asking a thousand questions with just one word. "Where?"

"Bed," she whispers, moaning out the word, wrapping her arms around his neck as he pulls her away from the door, his lips never leaving the place where her pulse used to beat, his eyes searching the tiny apartment as he strides swiftly through the living room with her wrapped around him, quickly finding the bedroom.

Tossing her down roughly onto the bed, he pulls off his jacket, throwing it carelessly to the floor as his eyes take in his surroundings. Pink shit everywhere, of course; the bed, the curtains. His eyes fall on her pillow, the bloodstains there from her tears and the bleeds, before his gaze falls back on her. Managing only to pull his shirt over his head before his need for her, to feel her body against his again, becomes too great, he climbs over her tiny body, resting his weight on his elbows as he combs her hair back from her face with his fingers.

Leaning down to kiss her softly, he whispers against her lips, "Stop hiding from me."

"What?" she whispers back, confusion painting her lovely features.

"Our bond," he answers, pulling away to look down at her, "Let go."

And she does, slowly loosening the vice grip she holds on their bond, her emotions at first filtering through as if through a pinhole that grows larger and larger, until he can feel her fully again. He groans, burying his face in her neck, as she finally fills the unbearable void she had left in him when she ran away, rushing into him like rapids, filling the empty space in his heart with her sadness and longing mixed with happiness, pain and hunger swirling with lust.

The intensity of her hunger makes his fangs ache, and he scrapes them against her neck, desperate for some sort of friction against them as he whispers, his voice stern, "How long has it been since you've fed, child?"

"I don't…" she trials off, moaning as his fangs barely prick her skin, arching her delicate neck into his mouth as he laps at the small amount of blood that wells from the tiny, already healing wounds. "I don't know," she finishes finally, distractedly.

He leans back as he licks her blood from his lips, his fingers toying with the knot on her robe as he smirks, teasing her, "You remember how long it's been to the day since you have last seen me, and not how long it's been since you fed?"

"I…" she begins, her face suddenly crumpling as her eyes fill with tears again. "I've had a hard time, Eric…"

"I know, sötnos," he murmurs, suddenly flipping their positions; he sitting up on the bed, his feet firmly planted on the floor, she still wrapped around him in his lap. His eyes fall to his fingers as they slowly untie the bow the belt of her robe is tied in as he speaks. "I felt you. Every day, I lied awake with the bleeds for hours, Pamela. Just to feel you. Just for a moment."

Slowly, he pushes the robe from her shoulders, ignoring her wide eyes at his confession. He allows the garment to flutter to the floor, baring her to him completely; his eyes hungrily taking in her full, perfect breasts as he reaches up to run his fingers across her collarbone. "It was the only way I could keep on. The only way I could face the next night." His eyes snap to hers as the backs of his fingers brush against the swell of her breast, his deep voice heavy with is regret. "I am so sorry, my love. So sorry."

For a long moment, she looks at a loss for words, her eyes fluttering closed as his fingers trail down her breast bone, his own light blue eyes glued to the path of his fingers; a habit of his she's always found amusing, ever since the first night they laid together. She would never forget the way it felt as he traced his fingertips from her neck and down her side, as if he was memorizing her every curve. And a hundred years later, he's doing the same, rememorizing the body he's been parted from for far too long. Her hands slide along his wide shoulders, her eyes still closed as she feels the hard muscles beneath her fingertips that she knows so well. "I've missed you so much, Eric," she whispers finally, her fingers making their way up his neck to sink into his hair.

"And I've missed you," he murmurs as he leans forward slightly, his broad hand spanning almost her entire back pulling her to him the rest of the way, his lips first barely brushing against one nipple, and then the other, before he pulls one in his mouth, laving his tongue over the rosy bud.

She groans, her fingers fisting in his hair. She adores his mouth on any part of her body, and not only did no one else come close to pleasing her the way he did, not only did no one know her body as well as he did, it had been far too long since she had been touched in this way, and she quickly becomes desperate for more.

"Eric," she whispers as she leans over him, her lips by his ear as she breathes, "I need you."

"Not yet," he murmurs, pulling his attentions away from her chest to kiss up to her throat, his hand on her back pulling her chest against his bare skin before it makes it way up her neck, tangling his fingers in her blonde curls. She cries out as he pulls her roughly to him by his grip on her, her eyes widening as he bares his thick neck to her.

"Drick, mitt barn," he says softly, but in a tone that brokers no argument. "I can feel your hunger. Your weakness. Your pain. I've felt it every morning that you've been gone. Why would you not help yourself, Pamela?"

"I…" she begins, cut off abruptly by her fangs dropping, her hunger ravenous. He can feel her sadness rush through her, his own deepening knowing the answer. Because _he _treated her like nothing, and she _believed _him. She didn't see fit to help herself, and who knows how much longer she would have lasted, if he hadn't come for her? How much longer could she have held out, considering the strain on her blood and body from hiding from him, from disobeying his maker's command?

It had been years since they last exchanged blood. Their bond was still incredibly strong, and always would be. But, he finds the longer she hesitates, the more desperate he becomes for her to have more of his blood in her veins. He may never hear her say she forgives him. She may never say the words, she may never accept what he had done to them as the mistake it was, but it would be a beginning. An approval. An acknowledgement, at least, that she would try. That they could begin to move past this, together.

He releases his grip on her hair, giving her the free will, as he always has, to choose. But that doesn't stop him, as his fingers trail down her spine, from begging her one last time. His desperation is written clearly for her to see on both his face and in his eyes, and no doubt coursing through their bond, as he whispers, "Vänligen, Pamela. Jag kommer att göra något."

She doesn't answer, doesn't even nod her assent. He stays frozen as one hand slides from his hair, reaching for his face, the backs of her fingers barely brushing against his cheek as her eyes study his for what seems, to him, to be eternity, before she leans down, pressing her lips softly against his. His eyes close as she breaks away, her lips pressing against the corner of his mouth before making their way across his jaw. She sucks gently on his earlobe, her cool breath at his ear causing him to shudder, before her lips make their way down his neck, all the way to the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

Unable to help himself another second, his whispered plea leaves his lips once again.

"Please, Pamela."

Her tongue darts out, dragging up his neck, her fingers in his hair suddenly turning from gentle to a vice-like grip as she twists his head away from her, not at all gently sinking her fangs into the his throat. His moan morphs into a strangled groan as she pulls hard on the wound, her own guttural groan a deep, wet sound as his blood hits her parched throat.

His arms band tightly around her, pulling them chest to chest as she drinks deeply from him, the sound of her dark growl against his throat, her breasts pressed against his skin, making him painfully hard, his need for her to drink from him satisfied, another need altogether charging to the forefront of his mind.

Never pulling her fangs from his throat, still gulping down mouthful after mouthful of her maker's healing blood, Pam reaches between their bodies, making quick work of the button and fly of his jeans, sinking her small hand into the waistband to free his length from their confines. He moans as her hand wraps around him, stroking him agonizingly slowly in time with her measured draws on his blood.

His hands slide down, gripping her waist as he pulls her against him, easily lifting her small frame off his lap, the tip of his hardness brushing against her entrance, already dripping with her need for him. He wants to take his time. He wants to show her _exactly_ what she means to him. He had planned to show her how much he loved every square inch of her, to throw her over the edge into oblivion countless times until her tiny frame was shaking with her want for him before he allowed himself to be inside her, to take his own pleasure in her body.

But he realizes that's not going to happen. There will be time for worshiping her as she deserves to be worshiped later. An eternity to show her how he feels, how he still feels after a hundred years of exactly this.

She whimpers against his skin, as desperate for him as he is for her. With her hand still wrapped around him, guiding him, he slowly lowers her weight down onto his length, sinking into her little by little. As he slowly fills her, he hears her muffled cry before she rears back, his blood painting her delicate fangs, gushing down her chin, little drops drifting down her breastbone.

His blood all over her mouth, her wild eyes, her hair gently mussed from his fingers tangling in it, makes an unneeded breath catch in her throat.

"Beautiful," he whispers as his grip on her hips tightens, both of them moaning as he fills her to the hilt, his head pressing against her back wall as she stretches to accommodate his length and girth, molding to him as only she ever has. His voice is strangled as he manages to repeat himself. "You are so fucking beautiful, Pamela."

Her only response is to lean forward, pressing her lips against his, her hands coming up to frame his face. Her kiss is soft, sweet, at first; but when her tongue brushes his, the taste of his blood threatens to send him into a frenzy.

Her arms wind around his neck as they kiss, tongues suddenly fighting passionately for dominance, fangs slicing lips as she lifts herself up, almost completely unsheathing his length, before she slides back down again, crying out against his mouth as he fills her once more.

His hands leave her hips as she begins to move over him, winding into her loose curls, holding her in place as she breaks away from his lips, pressing her forehead against his, her sparkling eyes locked on his, never wavering.

There was nothing that could ever compare to the feeling of being inside of her, watching the pleasure on her features as she moved, their bond opened wide as it is in this moment. Nothing. Not Sookie, not any other woman on the planet. Only _her_. And by his own stupidity, he threw it all away. He could have lost her. He may _still_ lose her. Anyone else would have never let him in, never let him get this far. But Pamela, his sweet Pamela, never could he truly do wrong in her eyes. And he doesn't deserve it, doesn't deserve _this_. Doesn't deserve _her_.

"Forgive me," he whispers, leaning down to press his face against her neck, his hands still wound through her soft hair, his words spilling suddenly from his lips as if he has no control over them. "Forgive me, Pamela, forgive me. I'm so, so sorry."

He only looks up when he feels her movements slow to a stop, her hands sliding from his neck to cup his cheeks, pulling his face up to hers. Still buried deep within her, his eyes finally rise to meet hers, her fingers brushing softly against his cheeks as she leans in to kiss him, before speaking against his lips. "I will, Eric. Maybe not tonight," she murmurs, "But I will. I always do."

"I do not deserve it," he says quietly, knowing it to be the absolute truth.

"Yes you do," she says, her fingers stroking feather light down his neck to his shoulders, her eyes locked on his. "I love you, Eric," she whispers softly.

"I love you, min älskling," he answers, knowing that he has never, _could _never, tell her those three words enough.

"We'll be okay," she says, before repeating it more firmly, as fact this time. "We will be okay."

"I want to be more than 'okay'," he husks, leaning down to press his lips against her collarbone. "Be mine again, Pamela. Like you used to be."

"Be _mine_," she answers, waiting until he leans back to look up at her to finish. "I've always been yours. Be mine, like _you_ used to be."

"I already am, my love," he says, his hands gliding down the smooth skin of her back. "I want to take you away from here."

"I won't go back to Shreveport," she says firmly, sounding more like herself suddenly than she has all night. "Too many bad memories."

"I'll go wherever you wish to go, Pamela," he answers honestly. "Anywhere. Everywhere."

Much to his pleasure, her lips curl up into a grin, repeating the words she spoke to him well over a year ago, in Bill Compton's dungeon, as a question this time instead of a statement. "We'll travel the world together?"

He smiles back, swiftly unseating her from his lap, tossing her onto the bed beside him, laughing aloud as she lands with an angry grunt, already reaching for him again. He stands, his eyes on hers as he shucks his boots and his jeans, standing still for a moment as they regard each other silently; her beauty in that moment taking his unneeded breath away, laid bare before him, lips parted; her long legs spread, beckoning him.

It takes him longer than it should for him to shake himself, and resting one knee on the bed, his hand encircles her ankle as he pulls her roughly to him. He leans over her, licking up her inner thigh, his hands moving up to pin her legs down to the bed when she attempts to back away from the sensation. His tongue drags through her folds, diving into her glistening flesh as he groans at the taste of her, licking from her center up to her nub, smiling against her as she cries out in pleasure, her hands fisting in his hair. Closing his mouth over her most sensitive spot, he suckles gently, her moans cutting through the silence of her tiny apartment.

Almost as suddenly as he began, he stops, his lips and fangs dragging across her flat stomach, pausing to nip at her breasts, as he climbs over her, her legs wrapping around him as he sinks into her fully once again, both of them moaning into their kiss as his lips find hers once again.

He begins to move, pounding into her earnestly, his hands on her thighs spreading her wider as he dives into her deeply, over and over again, her nails digging into his shoulders. His voice comes at her ear as he buries his face in her neck, finally answering her question. "Yes," he groans, "Yes. We'll travel the world together," he whispers against her skin as he bites at her earlobe, before mocking her voice, repeating her own words back to her, such a perfect summary of all the years they spent walking this earth together, side by side. "Killing and fucking and _laughing._"

"Yes," she cries out, her walls already tightening around him; their bond beginning to push them both over the edge much too soon. He can feel her fingers thread into his hair, pulling him closer as she whispers, "Please, Eric…"

He doesn't know for sure what she's begging for, but he knows what he wants. Never missing a beat, only quickening his pace, he licks along her shoulder up to her neck. It had been so long, too long, since both his fangs and his cock were inside her simultaneously; inside of her, where they belonged. Because, what he said moments before was the absolute truth. He _does_ belong to her, as much as she belongs to him. She is _home_, where he should be. Her body, and more importantly, her heart. Something he had let himself forget, but never, _ever,_ will he let himself forget again.

He gasps out her name a split second before he strikes, sinking his teeth into her neck, his arms slipping under her to clutch her tightly against him as her sweet blood pools in his mouth.

A strangled yet beautiful sound leaves her lips as she holds onto him tightly, coming undone in his arms, her orgasm tearing through her small frame, leaving her shaking as he continues to drink from her. Her blood, her body, her pleasure in their bond overcomes him, and, thrusting himself into her a few more times, he lets go, spilling himself inside of her, his lips losing contact with her skin as he all but roars as he finishes.

She wrenches his head from her neck by her grip on his hair, crushing his bloody lips to hers as he slowly strokes within her until he finally stills, releasing her to brush her wild hair back from her face, more pleased than he could ever tell her to see the true, happy smile on her face. It had been too long, far too long, since he had the pleasure of seeing that smile, a smile meant only for him.

"Again," she whispers.

"Nope," he whispers back, feigning seriousness.

"Why?" she whines, clutching at his shoulders as he pulls away from her.

"We have an eternity for that," he answers as he climbs to his feet, bending to pick up his discarded jeans. "And only a few hours to get to the airport."

"Airport?" she squeaks as she sits up on her knees, looking around her wildly, "We're leaving tonight? Where are we going? What about my things?"

He chuckles, leaning over to plant a kiss against her bloodstained lips. "Yes. Yes. Wherever you want. And fuck your things; I'll buy you more of this pink shit you surround yourself with. Leave it. Leave it all."

"But," she begins, arguing even as she climbs to her feet, coming to stand before him, "Where?"

"You don't want to go back to Shreveport. I don't want to stay here," he answers with a shrug. "That leaves us, oh, forty-eight states, and one-hundred and ninety-some-odd countries…"

"That's going to take a while," she whispers, dumbfounded.

"Indeed," he answers. "I've got a while. Do you?"

"I do," she says with a small smile, "and you've got a lot of work to do."

"Indeed," he repeats, before pulling her into his arms, her nakedness against his chest threatening to sidetrack him. "Sweden," he suddenly whispers, "let me show you my home, Pamela."

"Okay," she answers softly, pressing her lips against his chest.

He lays his cheek against the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair as she presses herself against him. A new beginning, a new beginning away from _Louisiana_, is just what they need. And, despite many promises to do so, he had always been too busy to show her his home. He had been promising her for over a century.

Sweden. It was where his story began. It will be where they can rewrite _their_ story. Better, he hopes, than it ever was before.

Although, he can't help but smile to himself when he realizes the truth. If he truly wants to show the woman in his arms his home, he need only turn her to the nearest mirror.

* * *

**A/N: Creys. I hate ending stories. You like? Review.**

**mitt barn – my child**

**min söta – my sweet**

**min älskling – my darling**

**sötnos – baby, sweetheart, whatever**

**Drick, mitt barn – Drink, my child**

**Vänligen, Pamela. Jag kommer att göra något – Please, Pamela. I'll do anything.**


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